


Revelation Follows the Red Violin Strings

by your_taxidermy



Category: The Evil Within (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Friendship, Inspired by Music, M/M, War violence, World War II, dramatic death, inspired by an album
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-08 09:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20833358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/your_taxidermy/pseuds/your_taxidermy
Summary: Where there is revelation, there is art. Where there is a war, there is surely someone to lose an eye.





	Revelation Follows the Red Violin Strings

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo here's my take on how Stef lost his eye <3  
I always viewed Stefano as a WW2 photographer in Fascist Italy or the Eastern Front, the game never made it clear on his time period. He was apparently born in 1985 but I think that's his date of birth in STEM, not his real life. His old-timey camera just screams WW2 :) When he talks about "Them" wanting him to conform to their ways, I took that as art during Mussolini's time, he would not be free to express his art. He talks about both his lifetimes... so... yeah. there's vague shippy-ness in this and I am not sorry xD Enjoy!
> 
> PS: ya'll don't know the weird research I needed for this fic

_5 PM. _

_Oh, the music he creates, how I could listen until death's embrace takes me. I wonder, what it feels like, you know? Dying. I capture faces in their last moments of drawing breath, though it feels like I can not understand their true feelings. Does it hurt? Is it painless? The men I capture, their faces... I can not recognize them. To see their eyes hanging from their sockets, to watch amber eyes turn ashen. That is beauty. I have seen so many beautiful places in my life, beauty in the eyes of a woman, beauty in the sculpted hands of man. There is beauty all around me, even in war. Even if this war has taken everything from the land, the people, and the men fighting. Though I see the beauty in despair, in the crimson splashes of blood onto my camera. The ivory bones sticking from the legs of soldiers, just as ribs sticking from their stomachs. This violinist among us, Rainer, a sweet German fellow. He is... different. Different like me, I dare say. He is a tender age of 19, he should not be a solider, I wish to see him prosper as the violinist he is. I will never forget the day his platoon traveled to a small shack and there he found his weapon of war. It did not drop bombs from the air or shoot bullets with the speed of light. It was a gift from God above. _

_It was the gift of music. _

_I must end this page, there is never-ending work for a man like me as there is never an end to death in the midst of a war. _

_Yours, Stefano V. _

* * *

Rainer sits quietly, his hands are nimble against the block of wood. His knife digs into the bark, flicking it gently. Stefano watches his hands twist and contort to carve such intricate shapes and patterns. "You have talent," a thick, accented voice calls from across the room. A single candle aluminates Rainer's table. Stefano's footsteps are gentle, like swaying fields of baby's breath by the river's edge. Blue eyes pierce into Rainer, like knives in his chest. His gentle heart falls to the bottomless pit of his stomach, so much so his hands pause. The wood's shadow dances on the walls around them, candlelit and gentle. Stefano smiles, lowering his head before the German soldier. "Thank you," he replies. "I wanted to be an artist before the draft," he confesses it like a sin to a priest, there's shame laced around his voice, sounds of heartbreak and humility. "Is that so?" Stefano walks closer to him, gloved fingers wrapped around his camera. His eyes softened. "I understand you, _mio amico. _This feels like the only place I witness artistry in its rawest form. Death." Stefano sits in front of the man, his pant cuffs rise above his ankles to reveal solid black socks. "May I take your photo?" Stefano raises his brows, lips curled into a gentle smile. "I... I am not photogenic at all, Herr Stefano. A face like mine is not worthy of your skill," Rainer replies, there's shame in his eyes. Too much humility. 

Stefano smirks, his wrist going floppy. "Rainer," he begins, "do not be so _low." _Stefano holds his camera, tuning his lens until Rainer's face was in a perfect, clear frame. The golden ocean of gold curly hair cascaded over his eyes, eyes a pale, ghostly gray. "You look marvelous," Stefano cooed. "The flame... oh, it shines those eyes, it is like looking into... a mirror. I can see my camera in them." Stefano runs his tongue along his lower teeth in concentration, adjusting his lens ever so slightly. "Hold still, please..." 

There's a click, a flash. "Perfect." the flames bounced off his jawline. The photo began to print and fell into Stefano's hand. He scanned the photo, his model's eyes did not have that bright, youthful look like before. "You look like you've seen many things haven't you?" Stefano glances up at him through his own hair. "I have, things I wish I could forget." 

"You have sad eyes," Stefano shakes his head, running his index finger over the photo's edge. His leather gloves glide smoothly over the corners. "Like you've seen sad things." Rainer shuts those melancholic eyes. "It mustn't be easy for you, Herr Stefano. I can only imagine what you have seen." He lowers the wooden carving on the table, drumming his defined fingers over the pattern. "I haven't seen enough," Stefano confesses, there's an air of mischief in his voice. His vocal cords rumble in a deep chuckle. "I wish to see more, more beauty, more pain, more... everything." the older man's voice is like silk falling in on itself. Before either of them could continue, a man barged into the humble shack. "Herr Valentini, you are needed desperately outside, please come at once." Stefano pulled Rainer with him for protection. Rainer felt for the STG44 rifle on his back, he prayed he didn't have to use it. Rainer was no killer, yet a young man thrust into a bloody war. 

There lays the body of a German soldier, bleeding out on the cold, hard ground. Stefano's eyes widened. Seeing life _**fade,**_ the color slowly escaping his skin. His vision was blurry and his limbs weighed 50 pounds each. He just... wanted to rest his eyes for a moment. "Hanz!" Rainer shouts, "Someone, please! Help him, don't stand there like ducks!" Stefano is surprisingly calm. Hanz brings a hand to his kidney shot, his fingers press into the bullet wound. The blood slows. Stefano crouches beside him, gentle eyes boring into the injured soldier. Leaves crunch under his knees, his toes dig into the dirt. Stefano's hand reaches to brush the dirt off the man's face, he moves so tenderly, gingerly, precautiously. His hands drip with sugar water, delicate and precise. Hanz had never felt such a loving touch. His knees rest on the dirt, dark blue dress pants hug Stefano's thighs and behind, following the contours of his legs. "Rainer, could you play your comrade out? Your... violin is magical." How is he so calm? How is he so cold yet tenderly warm? "Yes, p-p-please. Please, Rainer. Your... your music, brings us so... so much joy." How could Rainer be asked to conduct a funeral tune? His eyes ache alongside his heart. "Run, hurry for your dearest friend," Stefano waves a hand behind him, sending his little puppet away on command. If his comrade wishes to hear his heavenly violin then how can Rainer deny him his last wish? 

"Hush, hush," Stefano coos gently, "death is only a beginning. There is nothing to fear on the other side, my friend." Hanz's body trembles like an autumn leaf in a soft breeze, the last thing a man sees is death's camera taking his final portrait. Death is a sweet thing, is it not? His camera is so breathtaking, even if it is stained in blood.

Rainer grabs his violin case, pulling the blessed weapon from its case. He knows it does not belong to him, yet the old man who lived in this precious shack before the raid. It haunts his dreams, still. 

"So tired," Hanz says, "so very tired." Stefano zooms his camera on his bloodied lips, his teeth stained red and shades of black as it dries on his lips. Rainer feels himself breaking at the seams, his bones feel like hot iron. His rubber boots leave harsh dents in the ground, he runs harder than he thought he could. Men surround their comrade, knowing the only thing they could do is keep him comfortable. "Play him away, Rainer. My violinist," Stefano feels no pain, no guilt or remorse. His job is not to help, yet to capture the many faces of death. The wicked violin plays a just as wicked tune, somber and dreadful. Every soldier removes their caps and Stefano waits, he waits for the life to drain, it's happening faster than anyone knows. Stefano falls into the abyss of Hanz's eyes, hellishly brown and lonesome. The violin tune puts a cracked smile on his face. Stefano captures this moment with a flash, he will savor these moments. 

The bow slides against the strings, a fierce, devilish tune dispersed into the air like magic. His ending note; Hanz's last breath. 

Rainer's face is stained with dirt and tears. 

Stefano clicks, Hanz passes, Rainer turns his head in despair. 

The sun turns into the moon, stars peppering the night sky. 

The somber tune of the violin plays still in the night, dancing over the splintering planks in the barn house.

Stefano reviews his photographs of Hanz, he signs his name on the back of the polaroid. he keeps replaying that event in his head, watching as blood pooled behind his tongue, dripping into his stomach, giving the man a wave of nausea. The tune plays him out, photo by photo, signature after signature. Stefano feels his heart beating faster, he can't stop his hands from shivering with anxiety. To see the blood spill out of another human being was exhilarating. He imagined himself, again and again, slitting a man's throat just to catch that picture-perfect frame. The desk his hands rest on tremble softly, his fingers lost in a mindless trance of movement, his tendons bulging under his gloves. He swallows hard, eyes scanning each droplet of blood on the victim's face. He traces the smears on his lips, crimson beads rolling onto his neck. This was a revelation. 

"Herr Stefano?" Rainer calls. Stefano blinks. it feels like he just woke up from a dream. 

"Rainer, Herr Rainer, my friend. Are you recovering?" Stefano isn't thinking, his words came out but he did not hear them. He feels deliriously happy. 

"He was my friend, I... the tune I played was..." Rainer can't get the words out without sniffling like a baby. 

"Was beautiful, Herr Rainer. Why do you worry?" Stefano folds his hands, the fine leather flexing over his fingers. 

"I worry because he wasn't a fighter! I worry because I am no fighter, I was an **_artist! _**_An artist!" _Rainer points to his violin, hands stained with the blood of his comrade. "My gift was not to fight, I wanted to play. I wanted to make people's hearts flutter with my music... not strike fear into their hearts." Rainer pleads to him, this is like a never-ending nightmare he can not escape. He does not wish to escape with only half his mind, he wants to leave with all of it... or there is no escape with a rifle in hand. Stefano tilts his head, ebony hair falling over his eye. "Your passion is exceptional," the photographer says. 

That is all you say? 

_Exceptional? _

"Forgive me if I speak out of place, but does this not... change you?" 

Stefano rests his elbows on the table, his arms are gently rocking. "No. I do not allow it to change me." 

"You see all this death and terror and you are not bothered? You just watched a man die, he... he crawled back to our camp and you... are not upset?" 

"He knew his purpose just as I know mine; I am an artist just like you, Herr Rainer. I know my purpose. Yours is to follow orders, mine is to capture hell on earth." 

* * *

* * *

It was clear neither of them would change their ways. Stefano feels like he does not need to sleep, he's waiting for a battle, a war. He needs to see what true hell is like. 

Rainer kneels in prayer beside his bed, hands clenched around each other. He is begging God to forgive him for his sins, begging him to see past his wrongdoings. To keep his men safe, to allow Hanz a safe passing into the gates. Stefano finds his prayer endearing, asking the man in the sky to keep him safe. If only he knew his rifle would be only godly thing beside him tonight. A rifle, a bible, and the strong, iron fist of the shepherd would be the only thing to protect the herd. Stefano did not need protection, a blessing from above, rather a blessing in bloodshed. 

He flipped through his photographs, watching the changes in Hanz's face take place, how his lips moved in each frame, his eyes grew grayer. Death is a strange thing. Stefano leans back on the bed frame, rubber boots shining under the candlelight above him. He finds himself waiting. Simply waiting. For what? He relaxes his lower back into the hard pillows, gentle pops running up his spine, his discs shift with the movement, he thought there was no better feeling of relaxation. 

He can't erase Hanz from his memory, he doesn't want to erase him, he wishes his memory to live on forever in the hands of the artist! 

Stefano runs his gloved fingers along his bare forearms, his arms are defined and muscled with lean tissue. He is mesmerized by the way tendons move under the skin - if he could just... peel back the layers and watch them move freely. Now that would be raw art. Stefano licks his lips, the soft, pink skin shimmers under the flames. He's obsessed with his own art, the art his body creates just be existing. What more could he create with another person? 

When the morning comes, Stefano is the first awake, he savors a cup of black coffee in the chilly morning. It runs down his throat in bliss, his whole body feels warm and pleasant. Dragon's breath escapes his nostrils when he breaths out. His hands grow numb without his gloves, he can not have such a thing, his hands must be quick and agile to capture hell in a frame. 

"Rainer, Herr Rainer, you look well this morning." Stefano gives him a soft smile, offering him the rest of his coffee Rainer does not look well, he does not feel well. "They buried Hanz last night," the German mutters, he still can't wrap his head around it, to see a man die right before his eyes is haunting. He can't cope with it anymore. He thought he could cope with it. "Oh, bless his soul." Stefano's heart doesn't ache as he expected it to. He doesn't understand why he feels such apathy. He doesn't care. 

Rainer shakes his head and takes the metal cup, finishing the coffee out. "Have you ever thought about the music of war?" Stefano breaks out as he cleans the lens of his camera. "The drum of boots against the ground, the music made of lead as gunfire fills the air. Drones buzz like a horn, isn't it beautiful in a way?" Stefano runs his fingers through his hair, those devilish blue eyes fluttering open. Rainer is blind to his ways. He is blinded to the so-called beauty of war. There is nothing magical, nor beautiful about war. "No, Herr Stefano, I have never thought about it." 

Stefano seems to tune him out. "I...I need to check Hanz's grave." Rainer is still carrying his violin case, all he wishes is so play him another angelic tune. He walks somberly, slowly, to the pile of graves behind the shack. Hanz had a crudely put together cross stuck in the ground above him. He prepares his instrument of war from its case, it is not a rifle, no handgun, yet the delicately crafted violin. His bow glides across, a tune screams out into the sky, it is the scream of pain Rainer wishes he could unleash. Stefano can hear it, everyone can hear this tune. It should be a somber tune, should it not? Yet it feels like the music to play in a romantic ballroom, throw in a piano and you could have heaven. 

"So... so beautiful," Stefano breaths in peace. There's peace. True, peace. A baby-soft wind runs through his hair, like a woman's fingers. He shuts his eyes, softly, gently. He imagines himself dancing with a long-haired woman, she has long, graceful legs that dance in tune with his. She has nimble fingers and eyes the deepest, chocolaty hazel he'd ever seen. Was this a loneliness induced fantasy or did he just want to watch her bleed out on the floor? Those stunning images playing in his head were slowly consumed by a three-legged beast trotting up to him. He'd taken many photos of Nazi experimentation and something like this would be... 'admired' among the doctors. But he must keep this idea to himself. 

So many faces of war haunt his dreams. He doesn't believe he wakes up screaming, he can't be the man with shellshock when he never picked up a rifle in his life. Shellshock was a sickness cursed upon men who had seen too much, men who had done too much. Not men who spent their lives in artistry and glory. Yet Stefano had no glorious life, he was no spring chicken either. Stefano was a man who had seen too much, too early, too soon for his young brain to process such horror. Repression became his best friend. Repressing terrible memories in the back of his head and drowning them in even more pain. There was artistry in razoring paper to shreds, those papers turned to butchering his hands in solo games of five finger fillet. Just as those brutal games grew boring, he moved onto drunken games of Russian Roulette. Bottle after bottle, empty bullets didn't do it for him anymore. Bored Stefano moved on to games left and right, throwing knives at people's heads to knock the apple off, holding the finest leather belt around his throat to bask in the euphoria of panic his brain produced. Until one night, he pulled far too hard and passed out on his bed. The only satisfaction he got from such dangerous games was the chance he would die. He could have any woman he wanted. There were enough German brothels he could get into, enough women willing to do what he wanted if he gave them a few cents. It would be easy. But he didn't want that, he didn't want a desperate woman because lord knew he'd had enough of them. He did not want human enjoyment, he tried and tried. 

But finally, he found something to give him that... that spark. The fire in his belly. Chaos. War. Bloodshed. When he had met Herr Rainer, he had changed. To witness a man leak brain matter from his eyes and ears while a delicate violin plays in mourning, was a breathtaking experience. 

When the music ends, Stefano knows there is desolation in the air. Dry cold, a bitter wind rips through him. Wretchedness and anger are all around him, men begging to go home, home to God. Only a bullet would allow them that kind of happiness. Stefano knew that before he came here. 

He finds himself standing in the open, light snow falls against the ground and Stefano catches the flakes in his leather gloves. It's gray. 

Only the smoke stains the pure whiteness with a bitter gray. Smoke from a fire perhaps, that's only hoping for the best. For worse, trucks and tanks are plowing through. He can't stop it from happening, he can only capture it. 

He waves to Rainer when he walks back, he leaves footprints in the thin layer of snow. Stefano smiles fondly at this friend. "I was hoping you would come back to me, Herr Rainer." He sounds too calm, knowing what he knows. "Come here, Rainer." Stefano cleans the lens of his camera. "Stand with your violin, _per favore."_

Rainer throws his shoulders back a few times, he still feels his shoulder blades holding all their tension. Stefano moves closer to him, perhaps a little too close, but he needs that perfect shot of his eyes. He steps back, focusing his camera on his model. "_Oh Rainer, mio caro amico, con quegli occhi spettrali." _His voice is sing-songy, happy. Rainer tries not to smile but the smoothness of his words can put a smile on anyone's face. A death row prisoner would be smiling like a kid in a candy shop around the charismatic artist. Stefano takes his first shot. The German's eyes are half-lidded and tired. Like he'd seen too much. His pupils are tight, the gray in his eyes isn't as vibrant as it was the day before. Stefano loves seeing such a change in him. "Why don't you play me a tune?" Stefano asks. "Of course, Herr Stefano." 

He brings the musical instrument into place and drags his bow along the strings only to find they're out of tune. Before he places the bow down, Valentini stops him. "No, no. The off-tune will add to your character." He zooms in on his face, his eyes are slightly blurry. "Of course, as you wish, Herr Stefano." 

Rainer brings the bow to the strings, he glides it like a knife through butter. Warm, velvety butter on a fresh slice of toast. He thinks about that from time to time, his MREs were mediocre at best. Terrible at worst. The slight off tune annoyed Rainer, to know he could fix something and to continue executing it the wrong way drove him mad. His eyes soften. Stefano still has the pre-war photograph of Rainer in his breast pocket. The same coin but two very, very different faces. He looks pleased, at peace, like he was playing a tune for a street cat. Stefano seemed to have the same eyes as those Berlin street kittens. They shared more similarities than he knew; those street kittens were sleek despite their deeply unfortunate situation. 

The tune was interrupted by a blip in its cord. A string had snapped with razor speed. It slashed under his eye, leaving a thin, bleeding slice in its wake. Stefano snapped the photograph with a pleased purr under his breath. "You're bleeding, Herr Rainer."

Stefano held the frame in his hand, it sparked a flame in his belly once again. Rainer's face was still bleeding when he held the violin. The recoiled string has a thin coating of blood on it. When Stefano saw this red violin string, a revelation came at hand. Brutality, in its simplest form, is beautiful. Was there not a taste of how brutal fate can be in that snapped string? 

"The blood does not suit your eyes, Herr Rainer." 

"Does it not, Stefano?" 

"Nien," he chuckles. 

"Red is... more my color." 

"It matches you best, Herr." 

Stefano hands him a cloth to wipe the wound. "A memory, a war scar caused by an instrument of beauty. How ironic, Rainer." 

Rainer glides the cloth over his skin with a laugh. A genuine, happy laugh. "Indeed it is,_ mein liebster freund. _Auch in Konflikten bleiben sie, Herr Valentini

_My dearest friend. Even in conflict, you stay. _

Such a kind moment had never been exchanged, but the death of a loved one will always bring men closer. When they walk together, Stefano hands him an old photo, a photo of Rainer before the war. "Do not forget yourself, Rainer." 

Taking the photo, Rainer has an ache in his chest. He always wanted to be the man before his trauma, but he could only become a new one. 

There is always something magical about old photos, no matter if you're fond of them or not. To witness change in its best form is nature's magic. 

Stefano took long strides along Rainer, the snow collecting on their caps. 

Some days pass after this, it's slow living at this shack in the open world, to know the somber history behind it only made it more painful for those with half a heart living there. Rainer did not want to shoot the mother living there and yet he had no choice in the matter. 

Stefano reads through a book day by day, finishing long novels in an afternoon became his pass time until word of an attack began to spread like wildfire. English fighters taking charge of Germans day by day, Stefano only stayed with the Germans as they were allies just by country. Fascist Italy and Nazi Germany were the only things holding them together. Stefano only saught art, not this bloodshed. 

The sounds of bullets are so much louder in real life, it isn't like silent films where the man's knees buckle under him and he dies. It's loud, so loud it makes your ears ring for days after. Stefano learned that when bullets flew by his head. Talk about near-death experiences...

Before anyone knew it, before Stefano could even prepare his camera, sniper fire rains upon them one by one. Picking them off like cattle for the butcher. Part of Stefano loves this, the other part of him wants to curl up like an insect and hide. This is no place for him. Rainer never leaves his side, even when things get sticky. The unspoken bond they share is truly unlike any other. Stefano feels no fear on the outside as he knows this is his art and he will happily die for it. 

English fire is painful. Deadly. 

Stefano creeps from his cover and finds things are surprisingly calm for now. People often see war as this crazy, hectic event with bombs going off every second. It is surprisingly calm. The man in front of his cover is shot dead. Stefano snaps his photo with ease. He feels nothing. 

"Stay here, Stefano, I beg of you. I need to check on the rest inside the shack." 

Stefano thinks he's dreaming, none of this even feels real. 

When bullets grow frequent and closer, Stefano realizes what is happening to him.**_ "Death or glory!" _**English soldiers shout with open fire, their bullets rip through the air with razor speed. The small platoon is surprisingly strong. 

When a body falls beside Stefano, his wide eyes look down to see the British flag on the ground beside the soldier. His breathing is delayed every few seconds, Stefano knows he's losing. He raises his camera to the man, snapping his photo. Blood stains his uniform, there's dirt all over his face and neck. The crack in his helmet spreads into the cracks in his skull. His breathing was only a death rattle, the emptying of the throat, and lungs. 

It's all so fuzzy around him. So bright, loud, and for once in his life, he is surprised by how brutal war can be. 

He hears shuffling around inside the shack where the old couple lived, he can't miss this opportunity for glory. Stefano climbs over the rubble, making his way closer to the shack. 

Stefano holds a hand over his mouth to breath. None of this feels real. "Rainer! Are you in here?" he shouts loudly, the ringing in his head borderline deafening. 

The doors fly open and both Rainer and an English soldier find themselves in a scuffle. Death or glory. The Englishman chooses death and glory. 

"Get out of here!" Rainer screams at the top of his lungs, Stefano does not listen. Field medics have no one to take care of, no one to save. Perhaps they could save this foolish Italian. 

A grenade ticks. 

The ticking doesn't last long. The Englishman knows he will die in this, but he would rather die and destroy a German camp than live and allow a new brigade to live there. 

Stefano presses the camera trigger and snaps the photo. It's a bouquet of flesh and blood, carnage and gore. The blast knocks Stefano back several feet, his camera somehow survives the blast and lands a few feet away from him. 

All he feels his warmth running down his face and neck, a steady flow of warm fluid. He lays on the ground, his vision is blurry and there's a never-ending pounding in his head. He drifts in and out of consciousness. The only thing he truly remembers was the gentle faces of medics. "Where is my camera?" he slurs his words like a drunken harlot. He reaches around for his camera, his ripped gloves dragging against the hot ground. "Keep still, friend. We will take care of you, Herr." 

It fades to black and shades of vermillion. He doesn't know what to think anymore. "Where is my..." 

"Shh, now, Herr. Hush, we will keep you safe." 

"My cam..." 

He fades back into his mind, all he can see in the droplet of blood running down the violin string. It was a revelation. 

He drifts awake inside a small hospital bed, makeshift, yes, but he was safe. 

Clair De Lune played over a record beside him, he brings a hand to his eye, feeling the warm bandages running along his head and down his face. He felt too tired, too lonesome to speak. A nurse sat beside his bed, long, red nails flipping the pages of her book. He glances over at her. "Madame?" Stefano whispers. 

"You're awake. I'm so pleased, the doctors could not save your eye, I'm afraid." Stefano looks around the room, he looks worried. "My eye? What are you talking about? What happened?" 

The nurse shakes her head. "You were in a grenade blast, you... lost your eye. You were a war photographer, no? This blast could have killed you... but we managed to save your photo." Stefano looked on the table at the foot of the bed; there lay his camera and the iconic photo. The grenade blast of Rainer. They only found his teeth. "Rainer..." he whispers. 

He feels empty inside and out like nothing can fill this newfound void in his chest. "Thank you, madame... I... I'm not sure what to think. May I? See my camera?" he talks about it like it is a lover. 

She says nothing but only hands him the photo and camera. Not even a scratch. The photo was timed for perfection. The huge blast was all fitted into one frame and he was still alive to tell the story of it. But Rainer - may he find eternal peace. 

He stares at the photo, it doesn't seem real. Was this luck or supernatural fate? Heavenly intervention? He can't bear to think about the scarring he will suffer now. 

He just listens to the tune that plays, the piano and violin sound just like heaven. "If only Rainer could hear this tune," he whispered to himself. None of this made sense anymore... 

When he sits the camera down on the table beside him, his fingers linger on the lens. All his work, captured on one hand-held tool. 

The nurse smiles softly, passing him water. her long nails brush his skin and it feels like acid against him. The contact aches. His body can't handle it right now. "You'll be fixed up in no time, just rest now, let me take care of you." 

Stefano's hand rests on the bedside, the tune is still playing. "There's... time for one last photo. Your face reminds me of a woman I have seen but never met. I need... to capture it." 

His hands aren't strong enough to grip the camera. All she has to do is tig his arm over. "Rest, and it will all be over soon. You can go home." 

"Home," he says drifting back into sleep, "let's go home." 

**Author's Note:**

> Real talk: Stef should have been the main antagonist in TEW2, I liked him so much better than Theodore, who just seemed really cheesy and campy. I'd never seen a villain like Stef before with a war photography background, he was totally unique, next to Ruvik <3
> 
> The end scenes were kind of rough as I just wanted to finish it, but I wanted to portray the same fuzzy feeling Stefano felt during the end. Make sense? Probably not. it's late as I finish this but I still and always will adore this fic. it's been a long time since I could say that.


End file.
